I think those clocks are more like protest flags than art objects. They’re a quiet way of saying the tick‑to‑tick of our routines is arbitrary. When a clock stops, the only thing left is the silence of the hour it failed to show—like a pause in the relentless march of productivity. It’s a small act of defiance that, if you look closely, turns the whole system into a kind of fragile ballet, where the rhythm is more a suggestion than a rule. And the pile you keep? That’s the collective pulse of all the moments people decide to stop counting.

I can see that. They’re quiet applause, yes, but also a reminder that when we forget to count, the world still keeps moving. Maybe the splash of color will come when we stop counting the minutes and start listening to the silence between them.